


Easier to Be Me

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Supernatural (Reader Insert Verse) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13472112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne





	Easier to Be Me

Beneath the yellowing lamp, Sam sat at the tiny motel room table, hunched over his laptop.

“You’re just gonna stay here?”

At the sound of your voice, he regarded you, an eyebrow cocked and sardonic smile hooking his lips. “Yeah. I’ve got plenty of work to do here.”

Impatient as ever, Dean wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “C’mon, Y/N. Between the two of us we’ll make enough cash to last us a month.”

Despite the appeal of full pockets and fuller bellies, you slipped from Dean’s arm quicker than silver and focused on Sam’s avoidance. “Why?”

“I’ll get in the way,” he argued. “Not much of a hustler. And besides, we need to figure out who… or what… ate all these goats.”

Dean sighed a rough grunt as he flung a dismissive hand at his brother. “I’m telling you, it’s that Chupathingy Ketch liked to talk about all the time.”

The Chupacabra? Again? How many of those damn things made it to the mainland? “Sam, we want you to come with us. Why don’t you want to go?”

A scowl darkened his brow as Sam turned from his laptop to face her. “It’s not that I don’t want to go. Someone has to do this tonight.”

“I bet you skipped every party at Stanford to study so you wouldn’t have to be awkward around people,” Dean ribbed.

Though Sam’s scowl deepened into a grimace, you pondered Dean’s jest. Awkward missed the mark, failing to describe Sam like filthy failed to describe Dean. A neat-freak and germaphobe, you had found antibacterial liquid in Dean’s pants pocket on your last laundry shift. And Sam charmed the pants off damn near every woman with which he spoke, his easy smile and soft eyes capturing hearts without trying.

Including yours.

“I went to _plenty_ of parties.” Not a hint of a lie hid on Sam’s face.

You leaped on your chance to double-down. “Then prove it. Come with us. The goat-eater will still be there in the morning.”

His grimace softened, brow rising towards his hair, and his charming smile followed as he considered you for a moment. And then the laptop lid shut with a quick snap as Sam closed it and stood. “You twisted my arm, Y/N. Let’s go.”

A wave of excitement rushed to your stomach, spinning the room and leaving you lightheaded. And you followed the brothers through the door of the motel room, the troublesome question that had plagued you the last few months returned. Soft at first, it whispered possibilities, a chance at something more, something _real_. As usual, the sting in your cheeks and sickened stomach followed with expedient haste, reliable as ever, and you shoved the thought aside as you climbed into the back seat of the Impala.

Ten minutes later, Dean turned into the lot of a dingy dive bar, your typical grounds for income. The battered marquee read “ladies night”, although its faded letters suggested a permanent fixture, and the “i” in night lacked its dot. But the line below blazed red letters that shouted “Karaoke!”, and before you had a chance to speak, Sam groaned.

“Can we find a different bar?”

Dean looked to the building and then back to his brother. “No, this one is perfectly fine.”

“But…”

“No buts, Sam, we’re here, I'm starving, Y/N is starving, and you’re starving. Let's go.” Dean’s declaration brooked no argument as he exited the car. Sam followed with a grunt of disapproval, opening the door for you, and then spoke over the roof of the car.

“Alright, fine, but no karaoke.”

Dean scoffed as he shrugged with his scowl. “C’mon, why not?” Without waiting for a response, he turned for the bar.

“Because you can't sing,” Sam retorted as he shut your door. Together, you caught up to Dean, his offended scowl instigating a fit of giggles you failed to keep quiet.

“He's wrong, I’m pretty good.” Dean yanked the door aside and motioned you to enter.

Sam followed on your heels. “If by good you mean bleating like a sheep, then you're an expert.”

At that, the damn burst and a river of laughter ran from you mouth, an obnoxious cackle that rang through the crowded tavern. “Sam, I think your insult may have backfired, I want to hear some of this sheep bleating.”

Dean’s barking laughter overpowered yours as you ventured to a high-top table in the far corner of the bar. There, your humor subsided as your focus turned to the dim tavern; a rough pool table entertained its players, scratched felt, shoddy cues, and nicked billiards showcasing years of use; card games dotted the tables, some poker, a little gin, and even a heated game of bridge in the darkest corner; and throughout, smaller games of dice and chance littered the bar, hustlers and patrons alike trying to make a quick buck.

As you marked your first target, a shrill wail of a pitch found your ears, whipping your head to the tiny stage. A patron attempting their rendition of _Crazy On You_ belted her lungs out, and you winced despite their bravery.

“I take it back, Dean,” Sam started. “If she comes up again, please cut in line so we can get out of here first.”

With an appraising eyebrow creeping towards his hairline, Dean agreed. “Deal.”

You laughed at that, voice mingling with Sam’s chuckles as each of you embarked for your targets amongst the patrons of the bar. With a final lingering glance over your shoulder, you found Sam smiling at you, a confident wave and a wink escorting you into the throng.

And from there, the hours slipped by, good company and flowing cash speeding the night into the small hours of the morning. You managed to take down a few folks at the pool table while Dean rang a round of folks through several hands of cards. Even Sam hustled a handful of poor saps too simple to keep up with his superior intelligence.

In your pocket you thumbed your wad of cash, adding up your final tally as you slumped into a seat beside Sam at a small table near the bar's stage. He, too, counted his winnings, a smile spreading across his lips so warm as he regarded you, and your heart skipped a beat. His massive hand clapped your knee, followed by a squeeze as he laughed.

“Quite the haul, huh?”

Words failed you, the warmth of Sam’s hand on your thigh obliterating any pithy response you may have prepared. “Uh, yeah,” you stuttered. “Couple hundred,” you finished as Dean likewise fell into a chair beside you.

“Son of a bitch, that was fun.” He patted the breast pocket of his shirt, a brilliant smile bearing his teeth. “Haven’t played cards like that in years.”

Sam nodded as his hand slipped from your leg, and your breath returned to your lungs despite your tightlipped frown. "Hey," he started, "you alright? You did a great job, I watched you run that table all night."

Once again, your tongue twisted, tied in a knot by Sam’s selflessness. “You—you watched me? All night?”

Pink crept across his cheeks as he averted his gaze, the gravity of his words weighing too late. But a hint of his crooked smile, that coy hitch at one corner of his lips betrayed his embarrassment. “I did.”

Dreaming about Sam Winchester had started mere days after taking up hunting with the brothers. Fantasizing in the middle of the day weeks later. Admitting to yourself your feelings for him had taken months.

But never had you anticipated Sam’s mutual pining. And yet, there you sat across from the man blushing like a schoolboy as you drowned in his endless hazel stare.

“That’s my cue.”

The world shattered into a million tiny pieces as Dean's chair scraped across the tile, and Sam’s attention snapped to him. “What are you doing?”

Dean simply gestured to the stage where the _Crazy On You_ lady chatted with the DJ, then strolled over and joined their conversation.

“God, I hope he doesn’t sing.”

Another laugh burst from you mouth, a barking guffaw fueled by liquor and too little sleep. “Is he that bad?”

Sam shook his head. “No, he’s great, I just like to give him crap. Keeps his ego in check.”

You hadn’t laughed like that in ages, not since before you started hunting. “What about you?”

“Me?” Sam laughed with you, his sardonic frown matching your mirth. “Nah, I can’t sing worth a damn.”

Before your disagreement reached your tongue, Dean returned with a grin so devious, you dared not ask. Without a word, he took up his chair again and kicked back, boots propped on the adjacent chair and fingers laced behind his head.

Sam checked the DJ once more, your own head turning in time to see the woman from earlier heading to her table but not before she tossed a glance to Sam. He swallowed a thick gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing as he turned back to you and Dean.

“What did you do?”

His brother surveyed the bar, heading swiveling like a top. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

Sam scowled, brow knotted and lips thinning to naught but a line. “Then why isn’t anybody singing?”

“Oh,” Dean began. “Yeah, that. You’re up.”

Sam’s face mirrored your own sinking heart, the well-played prank a first from Dean in months. And when you thought about it for more than a minute, the possibility that Dean had dialed back his practical jokes since you joined them sounded less plausible and more truth. But why? Sam had pranked him several times since the spring, and yet Dean had not retaliated in the slightest.

“You rat bastard.”

Dean’s shit-eating grin returned. “I gotta hand it to you, Sam. Your instincts are sharper than ever.”

Sam scoffed as he sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “You set the whole damn thing up.”

“Yeah, and you almost ruined it.”

Long fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as Sam’s chin fell to his chest. “What am I singing?”

If possible, Dean’s grin widened as he spoke, not to Sam, but to you. “ _Easier to Be_ , by Lifehouse.”

Part of you resisted the urge to hug Dean, while the other part begged to console Sam, his nose scrunched and wincing with his groans. But, you did neither and instead, spoke to Dean. “That’s cold-blooded, man.”

He waved you off, a flippant flick of his hand. “No, _Cold Blooded_ would have been a much more embarrassing song. Besides, you’ll thank me in the morning. I’ll sleep in Baby tonight.”

When you turned back to Sam, you found him on his feet and stepping towards the stage. And in that moment, your heart galloped, skipping a beat and thumping against your ribs if to escape. “Wait, you’re not serious, are you? You don’t have to do this.”

With a shrug so indifferent, you wondered if he meant it. “No, I do. That’s how reprisals work.” Before you argued further, he stepped onto the stage and plucked the microphone from its stand.

“God dammit, Dean, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen,” you chided.

Dean snorted his own laugh through his drink at that. “Nothing ever happens how it’s supposed to. Now, pay attention. We owe him at least that much.”

Arms folded across your chest, you stared at your feet in protest, unable to witness Sam’s embarrassment. When the guitars started, your eyes closed, prepared for the worst. After all, Sam had said it himself; Dean was the singer in the family. Not him.

A baritone so full soared skyward with such a swell, you forgot to breathe. The desire to see, to watch, to witness every second of this short moment snapped open your eyes and lifted your heart. There on the stage, Sam leaned on a stool, barely tall enough for his long legs. And from him drifted a voice so warm and raw, your fingers quivered, and your heart raced faster than ever. The first verse passed in a rush of air from your lungs, and the chorus sent a shiver down your spine.

 _You make it easier to be_  
Easier to be me  
It’s hard to believe  
You make it easy

With another verse, you chanced a look at Dean and to your own surprise, you found his eyes wide as yours. His jaw fell slack and his mouth gaped, then snapped shut a second later as he shoved from the table with a scoff and arms folded across his chest.

Chorus and verse repeated in kind, followed by the bridge.

 _It felt like the world_  
Fell from my feet  
Gave up on myself  
You didn’t give up on me  
Let myself go  
You were still there  
Like coming home  
Coming up for air

Sam’s heel bobbed in time with his voice, and with it, your heart, thumping with wild abandoned as he repeated the chorus one more time. And there in that span of eight measures, Sam’s gaze found yours and never let go. Guitars strummed, and drums beat their perpetual rhythm, accompanying his voice until he finished.

As quickly as it had started, the final chords faded to nothing. No one clapped. But no one booed, either. Sam remained on the stool a moment too long, lingering there with his eyes locked on yours, and only the DJ’s interruption recalled reality. With a shake of his head, Sam replaced the microphone and stepped from the stage, then, without word, grabbed his coat.

Over your shoulder, Dean towered with his jacket donned, and you scrambled from your chair to catch the brothers as they marched for the door. Sam exited in a rush, leaving the door to fall shut behind him and Dean barreled into it with less grace than usual. With a grunt, he wrenched the door open and ushered you past him.

“He’s gonna chew me a new—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“See?”

You said nothing, stomach sinking and throat tightening. “I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

Before you took a single step towards the car, Dean interrupted. “Nothing’s _wrong_ with me, I just helped you make the move you’ve been wanting to make for six months.”

Sam near growled at that, fingers curling into fists. “That’s not your _job_ , Dean! That was… that was unfair to me and to Y/N,” Sam barked as he pointed to the bar. “Now she’s in an awkward position.”

Both men turned to you at that, Dean with his expectant brow and Sam with his pleading frown. “Awkward?” you laughed. “I mean, sure, it was only awkward for about two seconds.”

Sam glared between you and his brother, several silent seconds ticking by until he formed a thought. “What do you mean?”

Dean groaned as he stomped for the car. “Son of a bitch, Sam, you’re hopeless.”

Sam ignored his brother’s words, waiting until the driver’s door slammed to repeat himself. “What do you mean it was only awkward for two seconds?”

 _Well, shit._ The whole ordeal really had put you on the spot. While Sam spoke the truth earlier, he only had the half of it. After hearing him sing _that_ song, your hesitation had ceased to exist, and that endless itch, that nagging, gnawing worry between your shoulders released. Nothing stood in your way.

_Right?_

“I love you, Sam.”

Your lips moved, and you heard your own voice, but the decision to speak never crossed your mind, let alone the decision to speak _those_ words. And Sam reared, taken aback and mouth falling slack, gaping like a fish out of water where he fell silent but for the brief starts to incomplete thoughts.

“Sam? I said, I lo—”

Massive arms wrapped around you in a flash, your thought clipped short as Sam gathered you into his embrace and the world fell from your feet. Time stretched, seconds dragging for an eternity as you melted into his arms, your own squeezing tight and your nose buried in his hair. Behind gun oil and musty books, the warm sweetness of coconut shampoo filled your lungs, the heady aroma obliterating any coherent thought. And, God, those arms. Lighter than air, he held you with ease, squeezing you tight to his chest and his own nose nuzzling your neck. You wished, begged, _prayed_ for the moment to never end, but reality returned with the weight of the world as Sam set you on your feet.

And for a moment, he stared, longing etched across his brow as his fingers twined with yours. No sentiment encompassed your racing heart and spinning stomach, and so, you remained speechless under his gaze. Drawn like a moth to the flame, the space between you narrowed, dwindling to nothing as Sam's long fingers slipped in your hair, warm palm cupping your cheek and raising your chin. Too late, your body responded, spine stiff and eyes blown wide as Sam’s lips met yours.

Every ounce of tension melted, oozing from your shoulders and sloughed away by him, by Sam, by this man so kind and gentle and sweet despite his strength, despite his turbulent trauma. Soft lips plied yours with a tender touch, and stubble tickled your skin, every fiber in your body screaming, demanding more, stalling for more time there in Sam’s arms.

And yet, that desire for more, for everything Sam had to give, died on your tongue as your lips parted. There, he breathed a heavy sigh, broad shoulders rising and falling as if they no longer bore a great burden. His easy smile spread across his lips, eyes glowing in the first rays of dawn sunlight, and where Sam had found breath, yours hitched in your throat, enthralled by long, golden brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and his lover’s embrace. A gentled touch of forehead and nose met yours, and you hummed a sigh so content, Sam tightened his arms, pinning you to his chest.

“It’s true, you know.”

His voice rumbled in his chest like distant thunder. And try as you might, you had not the faintest clue of what Sam meant. With your neck craning to look him in the eye, you spoke.

“What’s true?”

Once more, his brilliant smile spread across his lips—lips you now intimately knew, had mapped in your memory their taste, their gentle touch, their palpable need. Another eternity passed there, lost in his new, selfless love before Sam replied.

“You make it easier to be me.”


End file.
